"How old are you?" he asked in her ear as her cheek pressed close to his.
"Seventeen," she lied glibly.
"Sub-deb stuff," he laughed. "I love 'em young. You can dance, too. Can I have the next?"
"There won't be any next," said Pat tragically. "Here's Mother."
"Oh, Lord!" said Warren Graves. "Let me do the talking."
But no talking was called for. Mona Fentriss swept down upon her truant daughter, caught her in a laughing embrace, slapped one hot cheek, kissed the other, and delivered her verdict!
"Back to bed with you! Quick! How did you ever get out?"
"Can't I have just one more turn," pleaded Pat.
"Not a step. Where did this roost-robber"—she indicated Graves—"find you?"